


"CHiPs" 2017 Season 1/Episode 4 "Amber Alert"

by Firebuff51 (DCMUFics)



Series: "CHiPs" 2017 [4]
Category: CHiPs (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Car Chases, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Friendship, Gun Violence, Gunplay, Humor, Kidnapping, Mental Instability, Modern Retelling, Police Procedural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 01:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCMUFics/pseuds/Firebuff51
Summary: As Ponch fights feelings of disillusionment towards his job, the officers must contend with a drunken bus driver and a stranded dog. Meanwhile, Fritz and Bonnie switch roles and a teenage girl becomes the subject of an Amber Alert when she is kidnapped by an armed man.





	"CHiPs" 2017 Season 1/Episode 4 "Amber Alert"

“ **CHiPs” 2017**

 

Episode 1.4

 

_ **Previously in “CHiPs”...** _

 

Officer Steve McLeish returned to duty after a leave of absence.

 

A pair of young bank robbers attempted to ply their trade in Los Angeles, only to be arrested after a pursuit and short stand off.

 

A replica of the _Dukes of Hazzard's_ General Lee was stolen by thieves who used the vehicle to taunt the officers of CHP Central, ultimately being apprehended by those same officers.

 

XXXXXX

 

Frank Poncherello stood beside the driver's side window of a small compact car as his partner Jon Baker kept watch on the sidewalk, thumbs hooked over his belt buckle.

 

“Am I being detained?” the driver, a young white man with blond dreadlocks demanded as he recorded video of the motorcycle officer with his cell phone. “Answer my question!”

 

Ponch exhaled as he stared at Jon over the roof of the car.

 

“Yes, Sir. Once again, you _are_ being detained,” he replied plainly.

 

“For what? I haven't committed a crime! You helmeted tax collectors just need to stuff more money into the pockets of those fat cats up in Sacramento!”

 

“You passed us doing fifty miles per hour in a thirty-five mile per hour zone, Sir. That's a violation. So is failing to produce your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance, so please, again...hand them over.”

 

“I want your badge number, Officer...Ponch...Poncharallo!” the driver snapped as he handed him the requested paperwork.

 

“It's Officer _Poncherello_ , and I will give you my business card when I return with your citation, _Sir_.”

 

“Gotta hand it to ya, Ponch,” Jon said as they walked back to their motorcycles. “you're keepin' your cool, not lettin' him bait ya.”

 

Ponch shrugged as he flipped open his pinch book and began to fill out the ticket.

 

“What good would it do? Man, I wish the '28/'29 would've come back with something on this guy. It wouldn't break my heart to impound his ride, at least.”

 

“Eh, you don't wanna get stuck doing all that paperwork this early in the shift, do ya?”

 

“It'd be worth it,” Ponch said as he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and clipped it to his citation book. He returned to the driver, who after a few words muttered under his breath, signed the ticket and was sent on his way.

 

Jon swung a leg over his bike and settled into the saddle as his partner did the same to his left.

 

“Twitter or YouTube?” asked Jon.

 

Ponch slipped on his shades.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The video he took of you. You think he'll post it to Twitter or YouTube?”

 

“I hope it's Twitter,” Ponch flashed a pearly white smile. “Getraer warned me to stay off of YouTube, remember?”

 

An orange and white Metro transit bus lumbered past the officers. Seconds later, the bus sideswiped two parked cars before continuing its path along the boulevard.

 

The officers started their motors, then each checked traffic over their shoulders before chasing after the bus, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

 

“ **Amber Alert”**

 

The bus briefly swerved into oncoming traffic before returning to its own lane, then forcing an SUV up onto the curb.

 

“L.A., 15-7-Mary 3 and 4,” Jon called into the mic attached to the left side of his blue and gold helmet. “We are following a 23103 MTA bus, northbound San Fernando crossing Monterrey, bus #7784. Requesting additional units for a stop.”

 

“ _7-Mary 3 and 4, copy_ ,” a female dispatcher replied. “ _Attention Central Units, 15-Mary 3 and 4 are following a 23103 bus, northbound San Fernando passing Monterrey, requesting units for a stop. Units to assist, identify._ ”

 

Ponch pulled alongside the bus, several frightened passengers pounded on the windows in an attempt to grab his attention. He pulled even with the driver's window to see the bus driver, a chubby man with a red face and graying hair hunched forward over the steering wheel.

 

The driver glanced over at him and smiled. He then lifted a bottle of _Stolichnaya_ , toasted him with it, and took a long pull.

 

“Pull over!” Ponch called over his bike's loudspeaker, pointing to the curb.

 

The bus driver waved before returning his attention to the road before him.

 

Ponch fell back even with his partner.

 

“Medical emergency?” Jon called.

 

Ponch shook his head.

 

“Not unless you count vodka as medicine!”

 

“He's a deuce?!”

 

“Hammered!”

 

The bus turned right, driving up over the curb and taking out a row of newspaper boxes before bouncing back onto the street.

 

“Mary 3 and 4, 15-6-2. I've got you in sight,” Jebediah Turner called as he approached in his cruiser. “Can you confirm if there's anyone on board the bus besides the driver?”

 

Ponch checked his side mirror to see the black and white closing in behind them.

 

“6-2, Mary-4. He's got at least three or four passengers on board.”

 

“If we get ahead of him, we can try and deploy a spike strip,” Jeb replied. “Is there a unit in position to intercept?”

 

“ _15-7-7_ ,” Barry Baricza called over the radio. “ _I'm responding, but it sounds like I'm a good two or three minutes away to your south._ ”

 

The bus blew through a red light, forcing several cars to stop abruptly to avoid hitting the long vehicle.

 

“6-2, Mary-3,” called Jon. “Looks like it's up to you, Jeb.”

 

“10-4, Jon. I'll let you know when I'm in position,” said Jeb as he blasted his siren and veered right onto the cross street. He turned left onto the next street and accelerated, running parallel to the bus's course.

 

Ahead of the pursuit, Officer Artie Grossman stopped his motorcycle diagonally in the middle of northbound traffic and held up a hand to prevent any cars from entering the intersection, allowing the bus to rumble past unimpeded.

 

The bus drifted up onto the median strip where it flattened a small stretch of shrubbery, then just as easily, drifted back into its proper lane.

 

A second set of motor officers, Steve McLeish and Sindy Cahill, approached from the east. They split up, with Sindy halting southbound traffic while Steve held up any traffic headed northbound. The bus barreled through the cleared intersection, the driver honking and waving merrily at them in acknowledgment.

 

“L.A., 15-7-Mary-3, we're still eastbound Victory, approaching 95th,” Jon reported, keeping the dispatcher informed of their location as well as giving Jeb an idea of where he would need to be in order to deploy the spike strip.

 

The bus slammed into a sedan that had just exited a driveway and spun it around. Grossman, who had been trailing the other officers, stopped to check on the occupants of the car.

 

Meanwhile, Jeb guided his black and white Crown Victoria to a stop and quickly stepped out.

 

“7-Mary-3, 15-2,” he called into the mic on his chest as he opened his cruiser's trunk. “I'm 10-23 at Victory and Archer. Preparing to deploy the strip.”

 

“15-6-2, we're about four blocks out,” Jon responded.

 

By now, three LAPD black and whites had joined the pursuit, trailing behind Ponch and Jon.

 

Jeb pulled the accordion like collapsible device from his trunk and stepped into the street. The bus approached, drawing closer and closer. He needed to wait for the right moment so as not to tip off the driver.

 

He tossed the device into the street where it expanded across the traffic lanes in front of the bus. Seconds later, the bus rolled past him and over the spikes, the front tires popping audibly.

 

As soon as the bus had passed, Jeb used the attached chain to yank the spike strips out of the street.

 

Ponch gave him a thumbs up as they continued on after the bus.

 

“I think it worked!” Jon called as the bus began to slow ahead of them.

 

Less than a minute later, the bus attempted to turn right onto the next street, but slowly drifted left instead, where it rolled up over a curb and onto the sidewalk. It finally came to a stop, nudging the wall of a small garage.

 

Ponch and Jon quickly left their bikes, running to the bus. Jon pounded on the bus's folding glass doors.

 

“Open the door!” he shouted at the driver who fumbled futilely with the controls.

 

“Hey! He's gonna try and back up!” Ponch called.

 

Jon pulled the ASP baton from his belt and expanded it with a quick whipping motion.

 

“Not if I can help it!”

 

He slammed the baton against the glass twice before shattering it into a shower of pebbles on the third attempt. He tapped the baton against the ground to retract it, then forced open the doors.

 

“Hey! Ya gotta...gotta pay!” the bus driver called. “I'm gonna...call the cops!”

 

“Too late,” Jon replied as he pulled the drunk from behind the wheel and hauled him off of the bus. “We're already here.”

 

Ponch slipped off his helmet as he stepped onto the bus.

 

“Is everybody okay in here?”

 

The small number of passengers nodded or answered in the affirmative. A woman in the back spoke up.

 

“What took you cops so damned long?!”

 

“Ma'am, we did our best-”

 

“Your best isn't good enough! He could have killed one of us!”

 

Ponch bit his lip and stepped off of the bus.

 

XXXXXX

 

The next morning.

 

“He so does not like me, Bethany,” Jennifer Sparks said as she and her friend Bethany Hernandez walked to school. “I even sent him a private message on his Instagram and he didn't even respond.”

 

Bethany laughed and elbowed her best friend.

 

“Whatever, Trevor is so totally into you, he's just like, shy, I think.”

 

A weathered gray Chevrolet sedan pulled to the curb.

 

“Maria! Where you been?!” called the man behind the wheel. He sported long dark hair and a scraggly goatee.

 

“Um, you've got the wrong people,” Jennifer said as she stepped closer. “My name's not Maria and neither is hers.”

 

“Maria, why you playin'? Get in the car.”

 

Bethany stepped up beside Jennifer and grabbed her arm.

 

“Go away, freak! Come on, Jen...”

 

The driver lifted a handgun and pointed it at Jennifer.

 

“Get in the car! Now!”

 

Jennifer raised her hands.

 

“Okay...I...”

 

The man cocked the pistol.

 

“Get in!”

 

Terrified, Jennifer complied and climbed into the car. As soon as she had closed her door, the sedan sped off and turned right at the corner.

 

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” shrieked Bethany, pulling the cell phone from her purse and dialing 9-1-1.

 

XXXXXX

 

Gene Fritz sat at one of the long tables in the briefing room, thumbing through the citations in his pinch book when a cup of Starbucks coffee was placed before him along with a peach danish.

 

He looked up to see his partner, Bonnie Clark smiling down at him.

 

“What's this for?”

 

The blonde haired officer pulled back a chair and took a seat beside him.

 

“Just a thank you for being a great partner. You've made my transition to a new office super easy.”

 

Fritz ran a hand over his tight fade and smiled at the cup of coffee.

 

“What do you want, Clark?”

 

“The keys.”

 

“The keys?”

 

“I've been here long enough. I know the area. I wanna drive. I think it's time.”

 

“Oh, I dunno...”

 

“What's wrong, Fritzy?” asked Sindy as she and Steve took a seat behind them. “You're not one of those super macho cops that can't handle letting their female partner drive, are you?”

 

“No, not Fritz,” Steve placed his gloves on top of his helmet. “He's much more evolved than that, aren't ya Fritz?”

 

“Alright,” Fritz sighed as he unclipped the keys from his Sam Browne and handed them to Bonnie. “But I'm still pickin' where we eat lunch.”

 

Bonnie smiled as she clipped the keys to her belt.

 

“Anywhere but Carl's Jr. and we'll be fine.”

 

Fritz cocked his head as he stared at her.

 

“What's wrong with Carl's Jr.?”

 

Across the aisle, Jon placed his helmet and tan gloves on the table as he sat down beside his partner.

 

Ponch leaned forward, chin resting in his palm as he stared at an unopened pack of Ding Dongs on the table.

 

“If you haven't torn into your snack cakes yet, it's gotta be serious,” said Jon.

 

Ponch shrugged.

 

“I don't know, man. That jerk yesterday, filming me on the traffic stop and then, those ungrateful people on the bus actually mad at _us_...”

 

Jon slapped his shoulder.

 

“You didn't take this job to be loved, partner.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but with everything going on in the world, the way people look at cops nowadays...I dunno, man. It just gets to me. Some days I wonder if I'd have been better off if I'd never been a cop.”

 

Sergeant Getraer entered the room carrying a leather binder, followed by Lieutenant Harold Bates, the A-shift watch commander.

 

“Great,” Grossman whispered, taking a seat behind Ponch and Jon. “If Apples is in briefing, something big must be up, and it can't be good.”

 

“Everybody, listen up,” Getraer called. “We've got an important message from the Commissioner's office. Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

 

Bates stepped to the podium at the front of the room.

 

“Thank you, Sergeant. As many of you are no doubt aware, there has been an ongoing...ordeal...involving a local CHP officer that has been nothing short of a black eye to our great agency. I refer of course, to the videotaped altercation between a motorist and Officer Bobby Nelson of the West Los Angeles office.”

 

The officers in the room silently exchanged looks. Weeks earlier, Officer Nelson had been captured on tape by a passing motorist repeatedly striking a driver that he had pulled over for a minor traffic violation. The video had been played over and over across local news media outlets.

 

“While the District Attorney's office has declined to file charges against Officer Nelson,” Bates continued. “the department has announced that he has been terminated. Due to potential pending litigation, we are asking all field

officers, if approached by members of the media, to refer any and all questions to the department's public information office.”

 

Bates stepped from the podium and stared out at his troops, hands on hips.

 

“Let me make something perfectly clear; actions such as those by Officer Nelson will not be tolerated. I don't need to remind you that we are constantly under scrutiny out there. Now, more than ever, we have to be an example to the public of what a professional, modern law enforcement agency should look like. Now, I will go to the mat for any one of my officers, you can count on that, but if _any_ of you are found to have broken policy or violated the rights of a citizen, if any _one_ of you crosses that line, I will do my absolute best to ensure, at the very least, that you lose your badge. Do I make myself clear?”

 

The officers responded with a collective, “Yes, Lieutenant.”

 

Lieutenant Bates yielded the floor to Sergeant Getraer as he left the room.

 

“On that cheerful note,” Getraer stepped to the podium and opened his binder. “Not much to go over. We've got a Sig-Alert, southbound 110 between Stadium Way and Sunset for a jackknifed semi. All lanes closed for at least the next hour. Time off requests. Please, get your requests in before the schedules are set for next-”

 

A female sergeant quickly entered the room and handed him a sheet of paper.

 

“Okay, we've got an Amber Alert just announced,” Getraer reported, reading from the sheet. “Suspect vehicle is a gray, older model Chevy Malibu or Caprice with a dent on the rear, passenger side door. Partial plate of 6-William-X-Ray. Victim is a Jennifer Sparks, 14. She's 5'6”, 120 pounds, long black hair, blue eyes, last seen wearing a white dress shirt, maroon vest and skirt. Suspect is a male white or Hispanic, medium-long black hair with a goatee, armed with a handgun. Nothing further. Keep your eyes open, people. That's it. Hit the bricks.”

 

The officers gathered their gear and began to file out of the briefing room.

 

“Everything okay, Sarge?” asked Jon as he and Ponch approached the podium. “You seem a little off.”

 

Getraer rubbed his eyes.

 

“I'm fine. Division's not happy about the whole Nelson situation and they're letting all of the watch commanders know about it. Bates is handling it as you would imagine.”

 

“Sorry to hear that, Sarge,” said Ponch. “You know, it'll pass and-”

 

Getraer held up a disciplinary form.

 

“What's that?” asked Ponch.

 

“This is a write up that I have been urged by Bates to file against you if you report for duty again wearing a non-regulation uniform shirt.”

 

“Oh come on, Sarge. You know how much Manny charges these days to custom tailor them for me? I mean, look at this. Even over the Kevlar, it still fits me to a T.”

 

“Frank, I couldn't care less about your shirts, but if the good lieutenant has a problem with something, then we all do. Understood?”

 

Ponch sighed and tugged at the collar of his shirt.

 

“Understood.”

 

Minutes later, Ponch and Jon descended the steps of the office and headed to the line of black and white motorcycles parked neatly below a covered area at the motor pool.

 

“This just isn't my week,” said Ponch, swinging a leg over his bike. He glanced at his partner, hoping for a sympathetic nod. Jon sat on his motor, staring at the helmet in his hands.

 

“Hey, Baker. What's eatin' you?”

 

Jon shook his head.

 

“This whole thing with Bobby Nelson. I was his MTO. He could ride a motor

well enough, but I don't know...there was just always somethin' off about 'im.”

 

“He was a hot dog,” Ponch slipped on his helmet. “I've worked some OT at West L.A. here and there. Rode with him a few times. He was a show off and he had a bad attitude. I had to call him out a couple of times for gettin' all badge heavy.”

 

Jon slipped on his helmet and buckled the strap.

 

“Some guys just shouldn't be cops, but somehow they just end up hangin' on. Guys like him, they make things harder for the rest of us.”

 

Ponch pulled on his gloves.

 

“Don't I know it.”

 

Harland Arliss, the office's chief mechanic, stalked past on the way to the garage. Ponch and Jon watched him suddenly stop, then turn to them.

 

“That Lieutenant Bates is a menace!” he snapped. “I have to fill out every requisition request in triplicate and submit it to _him_ now instead of just emailing the request to Sacramento like I always have. Filling out actual paper forms! What is this? The dark ages? What's next? Submitting paperwork by carrier pigeon?! Should I send a Raven?!”

 

He threw up his hands and continued his march to the garage. Jon started his motor.

 

“And I thought _we_ had it rough,” he smirked, before pulling out of the garage.

 

Ponch laughed and rode after him.

 

XXXXXX

 

“ _Attention San Diego Freeway units, multiple reports of a dog running along the center divider, westbound 405, west of Cherry. Animal control en route._ ”

 

“15-5-Boy, responding, westbound 405 from Temple,” Fritz replied with a sigh, before hanging up the mic.

 

Bonnie glanced at him.

 

“Still okay with me driving?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You know, I was first in my EVOC class at the academy. I'm a very proficient driver.”

 

Fritz nodded.

 

“I have no doubt.”

 

They rode in silence for a few moments. Bonnie nodded.

 

“Okay, then.”

 

“I see it up there,” he said. “Let's run a break.”

 

Fritz flipped on the SUV's red and blue light bar and hit the siren. Bonnie began to drive in an S-pattern from the left side of the freeway to the right and then back, gradually slowing down until traffic had come to a stop behind them. She parked the black and white diagonally across the middle lanes.

 

The dog, a small, white mutt, cowered against the center divider with its back to them.

 

“Here, boy! Come here!” Fritz called as he approached. The dog stood and trotted towards him.

 

The lanky officer dropped to a knee and held out his arms.

 

“That's it! Come on...”

 

The dog suddenly stopped, then turned and ran back to the center divider.

 

Fritz stood and dusted off his knee.

 

“You wanna try?”

 

Bonnie clapped her hands and whistled.

 

“Come here, buddy! Come on!”

 

Fritz smiled as he folded his arms.

 

“Wow. Why didn't I think of that?”

 

As before, the dog scampered towards the officers before stopping and retreating.

 

Grossman stopped his motorcycle beside the patrol unit and dropped his kickstand.

 

“Animal Control's comin' up behind me,” he said, stepping from his motor. “No luck wrangling the fugitive, I see?”

 

Bonnie hooked her fingers over the collar of her vest.

 

“Think you can do better, Grossie?”

 

Grossman slipped off his helmet and placed it on the seat of his bike.

 

“Watch and learn.”

 

He cautiously walked ahead by about twenty feet and whistled. The dog's ears perked up and it focused on the husky officer.

 

Grossman dropped to both knees and whistled again. The dog lowered its head and padded towards him.

 

“See? Both knees,” Fritz said sarcastically. “I should've dropped to _both_ knees.”

 

Bonnie chuckled with him.

 

“Here we go, little buddy,” Grossman said calmly. “Come to your pal Artie.”

 

The dog trotted forward, then ran past Grossman, circled Bonnie and retreated to its home against the center divider.

 

“Hey, thanks, Grossie,” called Bonnie. “We sure learned a lot.”

 

A white, L.A. City Department of Animal Regulations truck pulled past the stalled traffic and stopped along the right shoulder, followed by Getraer.

 

The sergeant cruised to a stop past Grossman's motor.

 

“So, I've got three of my officers standing in the middle of the 405 and traffic backed up half way to Long Beach, because of one little mutt?”

 

“He's sneaky, Sarge,” said Fritz.

 

“Definitely smarter than your average pooch,” Grossman chimed in.

 

The animal control officer, a young black woman carrying a snare approached.

 

“Any ideas?” asked the sergeant.

 

The officer shrugged.

 

“It's not an exact science,” she said. “You guys try opening the door on your cruiser? Sometimes that works.”

 

“Okay.” Bonnie opened the rear passenger door on their Explorer. “Come on, boy! Who wants a ride?”

 

The dog dashed towards the black and white. Suddenly, a big rig traveling eastbound on the other side of the freeway sounded its air horn. The dog cowered, then turned and scampered away from the officers, stopping in the middle lane, about sixty feet away.

 

“Alright, enough,” said Getraer as he slowly rode his motorcycle forward. The dog ran to the right. Getraer guided his bike towards the animal and sounded his electronic horn twice.

 

Once again, the dog darted back to the center divider. Getraer stopped beside the cement wall and slowly stepped off of his bike.

 

The dog hopped up and straddled the divider, glancing at the oncoming eastbound traffic.

 

“Oh he's gonna get splattered,” Grossman winced.

 

Getraer carefully reached out and pulled the dog into his arms.

 

“I don't believe it,” Fritz called as the officers approached their sergeant. “You're a dog whisperer, Sarge!”

 

“See?” Getraer handed the dog off to the animal control officer. “Nothin' to it. And he's a _she_ , by the way.”

 

“I gotta say, Sarge,” Grossman offered. “I'm truly impressed.”

 

“Well, you wanna impress _me_?” Getraer climbed back onto his bike and slipped on his shades. “Get traffic moving again. Now.”

 

He started his engine and headed off down the empty stretch of freeway.

 

“That's why he wears the stripes, boys,” Bonnie called.

 

XXXXXX

 

The gray Chevy rounded the same street corner for what seemed like the sixth or seventh time. Jennifer had learned in the two hours since he had abducted her, that the man driving was named Raymond.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

 

“Stop asking that, Maria,” the man rested one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the pistol that sat on his lap. “I told you, we're going home.”

 

“We keep driving in circles.”

 

“I just...forgot, okay? I'm...I'm having one of my headaches. You know how they...they kinda mess me up.”

 

For the last two hours, they had traveled from the San Fernando Valley to Valencia and back, meandering across stretches of freeways, side streets and back roads. Twice, they had managed to evade police cars.

 

“Your moms, she never liked me,” he said. “Always callin' the cops on me. I know they probably looking for me now. Looking for _you_.”

 

“Please...please...just let me go,” Jennifer sobbed. “I swear, I won't tell anyone. I just want to go home. My parents have to be scared out of their minds right now. I have a little brother and he-”

 

“Shut up! I love you, can't you see that?!” he snapped. “Why do you always want to get away from me?”

 

“I'm not Maria!” she screamed.

 

“YES YOU ARE!” he shouted back. “That's it! You asked for it!”

 

He accelerated and turned onto the next street which was lined with factories and industrial buildings near the flight path of the Bob Hope airport.

 

He parked behind a closed machine shop, out of the view of passing traffic, and raised the pistol.

 

“Get out!”

 

XXXXXX

 

Bobby Nelson swung his feet over the edge of his bed and sat up. The afternoon sunlight sliced in segments through the window blinds, stretching across the bedroom of his small duplex.

 

He'd been fired. He couldn't believe it. After giving six years of his life to the California Highway Patrol, the agency had dismissed him and for what? Because he got rough with some driver who copped an attitude? Hell, if he'd done anything wrong, the DA would have filed on him, but they didn't.

 

They took his badge anyway.

 

He glanced at the framed picture on his nightstand, the one of him in his dress uniform. It was the picture that he had taken shortly after graduating from the academy.

 

He picked up the frame and stared at it until his stare became a scowl. He angrily smashed the picture frame against the nightstand and then flung it across the room.

 

XXXXXX

 

Fritz and Bonnie sat at the table on the Arby's patio. Fritz sighed as he picked at his salad.

 

Bonnie stared him down as she bit into the last of her sandwich.

 

“Okay, let's hear it,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

 

“Hear what?” he asked, not looking up from his salad.

 

“What's the deal, Fritz? It's clear you don't want me driving. I'd at least like to know the reason why. I mean, did I do something?”

 

“Naw, it's not you,” he replied. “I guess it's me.”

 

She tossed a curly fry into her mouth.

 

“Explain.”

 

He stared at the passing traffic before he locked eyes with her.

 

“So, before I started at Central, I used to work down in Poway. My partner Stu and I were working an overnight shift. We got a call for an 11-25 on the 67. It was like, a chair in traffic or something. Right before we went '97, this big rig veered into our lane and ran us off the road. We rolled over into a ditch.”

 

“We heard about that up north. I read up on it.”

 

He nodded.

 

“I got banged up a little, but Stuey ended up paralyzed from the waist down.

I keep thinking, if I had been the one driving, maybe I would have been able to avoid the truck. I might've stopped it.”

 

Bonnie folded her arms on the table.

 

“Fritzy, I read the report on that wreck. The MAIT team said it was the truck driver's fault. The guy fell asleep. They said there was nothing you could've done.”

 

“Maybe. Maybe not. All I know, is I feel better when I'm the one driving. I mean, I know it makes me sound like a control freak, but-”

 

“No. I get it,” she said. “For what it's worth, I really am a great driver. I was-”

 

He smiled as he picked at his salad again.

 

“I know, I know. You were first in your Emergency Vehicle Operations Course. You told me.”

 

“No, I was going to say that I was a stunt driver before I joined the patrol. So if it makes you feel any better, I've got some pretty slick moves. Behind the wheel that is.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

She sipped her soda.

 

“Mmhmm. Google the _Chitwood Thrill Show.”_

 

Jon waved to the two officers as he and Ponch parked their motors beside the black and white patrol unit.

 

Jon slipped off his helmet and stepped from his bike.

 

“My treat today, Ponch,” he said, pushing his shades on top of his head.

 

Ponch pulled off his helmet and tossed his gloves inside.

 

“How'd I get so lucky?”

 

“You seem to need a bit of cheering up and if I know my partner, the prospect of free food should do the trick.”

 

Ponch laughed as they entered the patio

 

“I think this partnership might work out after all.”

 

Fritz offered a wave as they approached.

 

“Hey, you guys hear anything more about that Amber Alert?”

 

Jon shrugged.

 

“No. We were about to ask you.”

 

Bonnie shook her head as she stared at her cup.

 

“That poor girl's family. I can't imagine what they're feeling right now.”

 

Their radios came to life, echoing in unison.

 

“ _Attention Central Los Angeles units, report of an 11-80, southbound 5 at Lakewood. Two vehicles involved, one overturned. Fire responding. Central units to handle, identify.”_

 

“15-5-Boy, from Ardmore and Ventura,” Fritz called, standing as he tossed his trash into a nearby receptacle.

 

“We'll go too,” Ponch said as he and Jon jogged back to their bikes. “Sounds like you'll need the help.”

 

XXXXXX

 

The officers used the off-ramp to access the accident scene. They arrived to find a green compact car resting on its roof, while an older model red sedan sat a few feet away with front end damage.

 

Steve and Sindy had been the first to arrive. Sindy directed traffic as her partner knelt at the window of the overturned car.

 

“What've we got?” asked Ponch, stepping from his motorcycle.

 

Sindy shook her head.

 

“Driver of the compact's DOA,” she sighed, waving traffic past. “Other driver has some air bag burns, but she seems to be okay.”

 

Engine and Squad 51 of the L.A. County Fire Department cut their sirens as they stopped on the shoulder.

 

“I'll lay down a flare pattern,” said Fritz.

 

Bonnie nodded, walking backwards.

 

“I'll let the fire guys know what's up.”

 

Steve slipped off his helmet as he stood. He caught Ponch's eye and shook his head.

 

“Broken neck,” he sighed, tucking the helmet under his arm. “Not pretty.”

 

“What a week,” Ponch sighed. “I'll go call in the Sig-Alert.”

 

Steve stepped up beside Jon.

 

“Is Ponch okay?”

 

Jon shrugged as he adjusted his gloves.

 

“Eh, he's in a funk. One of those stretches where he's not sure being a cop is all it's cracked up to be, you know?”

 

“Been there,” said Steve.

 

Jon cracked a knowing smile.

 

“Haven't we all?”

 

“Alright,” Ponch said as he returned. “Everything's all-”

 

He focused on a gray sedan several car lengths back in the slow moving procession.

 

“That Amber Alert vehicle was an older gray Chevy, right?”

 

“Yeah,” said Jon. “You see it?”

 

“Here it comes right now, partner.”

 

Sindy waved the next car through, then held up her left hand, indicating she wanted the suspect vehicle to stop.

 

Raymond knew the police would find him sooner or later. They had even staged an accident to try and trap him. He was smarter than that, though. He revved the old car's engine and roared forward.

 

Sindy was forced to jump backwards to avoid being run down.

 

“Sindy, you okay?!” Jon called.

 

“Yeah,” she replied. “Go get him!”

 

Ponch and Jon ran to their motorcycles. Seconds later, they raced after the suspect, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

 

“L.A., 15-7 Mary 3 and 4 in pursuit of possible 207 vehicle, southbound 5 approaching Pepper,” Jon called as Ponch sped past him. “Grey Chevy Malibu, California, 6-William-X-Ray-Zebra-5-8-2.”

 

Raymond sideswiped a UPS van in an attempt to cause an accident which he hoped would slow down the pursuing officers. The van spun around, but stayed upright, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust.

 

The two motor officers sped through the dust and continued the chase. Baricza's patrol car fell in behind them.

 

Raymond drifted across all lanes of the freeway, then swerved around an eighteen-wheeler before cutting back across the lanes once more.

 

Ponch and Jon weaved in and out of the afternoon traffic and gained on the evading sedan. The suspect switched lanes and drove up over a dirt embankment onto a section of freeway that had been closed for a widening project.

 

The Chevy smashed through the sawhorses and traffic cones which had been in place to deter otherwise sane drivers and sped through the construction zone, forcing the workers to jump or run for safety.

 

Ponch led the chase, followed closely by Jon, then Baricza's black and white Charger.

 

The suspect's vehicle scraped a utility truck as it passed, snapping off the side view mirror.

 

A yellow skip loader carrying a raised load of dirt lumbered into the path of the pursuit. Raymond jerked the steering wheel to left to avoid a collision and screeched to a halt beside the large machine.

 

Ponch and Jon quickly came to a stop and dismounted their motorcycles, each officer drawing their weapons as they stepped forward.

 

“Out of the car!” Jon barked.”Get out of the car now! Hands in the air!”

 

Baricza moved forward, his silver .40 caliber pistol raised before him.

 

Raymond stepped from the car, holding the gun low behind his right hip.

 

“Gun!” Ponch called. “Drop the gun! Drop it!”

 

“Why won't you pigs leave me alone?!”, Raymond shouted. “I just wanted my wife back! Why can't we be together?!”

 

“Where's the girl?!” Jon demanded.

 

Raymond shook his head vigorously.

 

“That's none of your business!”

 

Baricza moved up on Ponch's left.

 

“Tell us where she is,” Ponch said sternly. “Put down the gun and tell us where she is. Things will go a lot easier for you if you tell us where she is.”

 

“No! You'll take her from me!”

 

The sirens of the back up units wailed in the distance. A stiff wind blew across the site, kicking up dust between the officers and their suspect.

 

Raymond raised the gun. Two shots echoed across the empty highway. He fell back against the car and slumped to the pavement. Baricza lowered his smoking pistol.

 

Ponch moved forward, weapon trained on Raymond. He kicked away the gun. Jon pushed the suspect onto the pavement and handcuffed him.

 

“L.A., 7-Mary-3,” Jon keyed the mic on his chest. “Shots fired, suspect down. Roll 11-41 and a supervisor. Suspect in custody. No officers hit. You good, Bear?”

 

Baricza exhaled as he holstered his weapon.

 

“I'm okay.”

 

Ponch peered into the car.

 

“She's not in here,” he said, kneeling beside Raymond who lay on his stomach, arms pinned behind his back. “Where's the girl? What did you do with her?”

 

Raymond gasped. Blood spilled from his mouth and pooled on the pavement.

 

There was a sudden thud sound from inside the old car, followed by another and then muffled screams.

 

Jon released the trunk latch as Ponch quickly stepped to the back of the car. He lifted the trunk lid to find Jennifer curled into a ball.

 

“It's okay,” Ponch said. “We're the police. You're okay now.”

 

She squinted up at him, then realizing that he was a police officer, the teenager reached out for him, sobbing.

 

Ponch pulled her into his arms and lifted her from the trunk.

 

“Thank you,” she cried, collapsing against him. “Thank you. Thank you!”

 

Ponch dropped to his knees and held her tightly.

 

“It's okay, you're all right now,” he said quietly. “You're safe. Did he hurt you?”

 

“No. He didn't touch me.”

 

Sergeant Getraer rolled to a stop ahead of three patrol units. He shot an inquisitive look at Jon who nodded as he slipped off his helmet.

 

“L.A., 15-S-4,” the sergeant called. “207 victim has been located and appears to be in good condition. Roll one additional 11-41 and you can cancel the Amber Alert.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Ponch stood in the hallway at Central. He watched through a window as Jennifer and her parents were reunited in a conference room.

 

He smiled to himself and turned to walk away when he found himself face to face with his partner.

 

“Still think you'd have been better off if you were never a cop?” asked Jon.

 

Ponch cracked a crooked grin and exhaled.

 

“Okay, so maybe I was a bit overdramatic, but can ya blame me? A day like this, though,” he glanced at the relieved family. “it makes me glad I joined the CHP.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Jon said as they headed down the hall. “Come on, let's finish out our shift and I'll buy you that free food I promised you earlier.”

 

Ponch laughed.

 

“Sounds good.”

 

Lieutenant Bates overheard their conversation as he stood at the filing cabinet in his office. He looked up to see the two officers pass by in the hallway.

 

He stepped to the door and folded his arms as he watched them leave.

 

Sergeant Getraer rounded the corner.

 

“Lieutenant, I emailed you-”

 

“I told you, Joe. Please, call me Harold.”

 

“Right. _Harold_. I emailed you those reports and CC'd the captain like you asked.”

 

“Thanks, Joe. Poncherello is still wearing non-regulation uniform shirts, I see.”

 

Getraer sighed.

 

“Lieu... _Harold_. I talked to him at briefing this morning and made it abundantly clear that if he reported for duty again wearing one he'd have a write-up in his file.”

 

“Don't worry about it, Joe.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I know I'm something of a stickler for the rules, but he's a good officer. I wouldn't want that fact to get lost in the course of my micro-managing.”

 

Getraer nodded.

 

“That's very big of you, Sir.”

 

“If he ever rides his motorcycle into the courtyard of the Chinese Theater again though, he'll be looking at a week off without pay.”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

“Close the door for a minute, Joe,” Bates sighed as he eased into the swivel chair behind his desk. He motioned for Getraer to sit.

 

“What can I help you with, Harold?”

 

Bates leaned forward and clasped his hands together.

 

“In your honest assessment, do we have any problem officers here at Central?”

 

“Problem officers?”

 

“Officers with multiple civilian complaints, excessive force complaints, disciplinary actions, anything like that?”

 

“I wouldn't know off-hand, but I can check with Personnel. May I ask why?”

 

“This... _thing_ with Nelson. I don't want a repeat of it here. Especially in the current climate we live in. One bad cop tarnishes all of our badges. We need to be vigilant, Joe. I don't want dirty cops in my office.”

 

Getraer shifted in his chair.

 

“Neither do I, Sir, but try as we might, once in a while, one just falls through the cracks.”

 

Bates nodded.

 

“Let's do our best to close up some of those cracks.”

 

That night, Jennifer Sparks burrowed deep under the covers of her bed and slept soundly under the watchful eyes of her parents who hugged each other as they peered through the crack in her bedroom door.

 

A few miles away, Jon and Ponch laughed as they tossed darts at the rear of the _Cora's Place_ dining room _._

 

Baricza took a seat at the bar. Before he could open his mouth to order, Derk placed a tall glass of beer before him.

 

“On the house, Bear,” he said in his Carolina drawl.

 

Baricza forced a smile.

 

“Thanks, Derk.”

 

Derk gave him a fatherly wink.

 

On the TV behind the bar, an overhead shot of the under construction freeway site appeared, accompanied by the voice of a news anchor.

 

“ _Next up, the latest on today's pursuit and officer involved shooting..._ ”

 

Derk quickly switched the channel to the Lakers game.

 

Meanwhile, at his Sherman Oaks home, Fritz sat on his couch, watching a video on his laptop of a stock car driving on two wheels before racing up a ramp and then jumping through a burning hoop.

 

His wife walked in carrying a grocery bag.

 

“What are you watching, honey?”

 

The driver emerged from the car and removed their helmet to reveal the face of smiling young woman with short blonde hair.

 

Fritz chuckled.

 

“My partner.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Bobby Nelson sat in his darkened apartment, the only light coming from the digital glow of the television.

 

He took a long drink from the bottle in his hand before letting it fall to the carpet.

 

He lifted the black Smith & Wesson .45 from the coffee table and stared at it in his hands.

 

One minute, he's a cop. The next, he's some guy sitting in the dark. How did this happen? After he had given everything to the CHP, how could they just cast him aside like he was nothing?

 

He looked over at the framed CHP patch that was mounted on the wall beside his television. The longer he stared at the patch, the more he could feel his anger rise.

 

He raised the gun and took dead aim at the star in the middle of the patch and the words inscribed above it, _California Highway Patrol_.

 

Suddenly, it all became clear to him. He knew what he had to do.

 

**END**

 

This is a work of fiction, any similarities to actual persons, places or incidents is purely coincidental. All legal and law enforcement information may not be accurate.

 


End file.
